


Now You Know You Know It Now

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Bullying, Charles Being Awesome, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Playgrounds, Protective Erik, Teenagers, well more pre-teen but there's no tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik’s not sure why he keeps glancing at the other boy. Not as if Erik <i>likes</i> other kids, or other people in general, for that matter. But still—he finds himself looking. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now You Know You Know It Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/gifts).



> For avictoriangirl, who requested kid!fic fluff with protective!Erik. I…don’t really do kid!fic (sorry! I never _have,_ before, and I’m not really a kid person!) so they’re not exactly little kids, more sort of pre-teens, vaguely eleven, twelve, thirteen or so? 
> 
> There is definitely protective Erik and Charles being awesome and Shaw being awful, though--so, belated happy birthday? <3
> 
> Title, opening, and closing lines from Tegan & Sara’s “Sentimental Tune.”

  
_you hate the tenderhearted torch song_   
_you catch a flame to my sentiment_   
_sentimental tune_   
_oh now you know you know it now_   
_and so now you know you know it now_

  
Erik’s not sure why he keeps glancing at the other boy. Not as if Erik _likes_ other kids, or other people in general regardless of their ages. Perfectly happy sitting by himself; happy here at the side of this scuffed and paint-peeling playground, testing the limits of his own powers, nudging chain on swings, hearing the squeak of the rusty roundabout as it wobbles. A bit more, just a _bit_ more, and he could make it turn—  
  
The other boy’s also by himself. Erik glances over again. Loses control of the roundabout for the fifth time.  
  
The other boy has dark hair and eyes like the ocean at twilight, like the ocean the way it looked from the rail of the boat when his mother’d held him up and said, “America,” and the sun’d been setting and the water’d glowed blue and the world had been waiting. Erik _has_ seen oceans. He’s not being poetic. Doesn’t do metaphor.  
  
Maybe the other boy likes metaphor. Those oceanic eyes’re watching the worn-out playground like a poet’s eyes might: contemplative, speculative, knees pulled up and arms wrapped around them, not moving to join in but smiling. It’s a very small smile. Pensive. Wistful.  
  
Erik wonders whether he’d like to join in the laughter and shouts and games of tag. Erik wonders whether he’d like company, if Erik got up and came over and sat beside him, no need to say any words at all, just the two of them side by side in the quiet. This boy knows about quiet. And Erik…

…for some reason he can’t explain even to himself, likes that idea.  
  
Erik’s mother’s over chatting with a friend on the benches, sharing recipes, gossip, whatever else mothers talk about for hours on end. Erik’s really getting too old to come to this park, with all the dreadful yelling and the despicable other children, but he knows she likes the excuse to get out of the house, to walk through the sunshine and green-tinged springtime air. He’d said sure, when she’d suggested the excursion.  
  
The other boy’d been dropped off by a man in a uniform and a long black car, and both man and car had left. No one’s here with him. His clothes’re expensive and prep-school neat and he’s out of place sitting alone in this noisy dirty space, as if someone somewhere’d heard that children needed exercise and hadn’t quite grasped the practical element.  
  
Up at the top of the slide, one of the more obnoxious boys is ordering the others around. Erik knows him, a little. Sebastian something-or-other. They’d almost been friends once—Sebastian’d invited him up to the coveted top-of-the-slide perch, impressed by Erik’s budding affinity for the metal around them. Erik had only needed that one day to decide that he dislikes the way Sebastian treats the other children and worse his own mother—disrespectful, snide, generally cruel—and has cordially refused any further overtures toward joining the gang since.   
  
The quiet boy’s looking at Sebastian, too. There’s a faint line between his brows, insofar as Erik can see; half his face is shadowed by the leafy coolness of a tree.  
  
And then it’s not, as he glances over in Erik’s direction with unexpected swiftness. Erik catches his breath.   
  
Those _eyes_. Good G-d. Those eyes and those freckles and certain awkwardly fuzzy feelings in the vicinity of Erik’s heart that he thinks might be the experience of falling in love, first love and first crush and all of those arcane adult mysteries exploding into life right here as he sits on damp grass and looks at those eyes and—  
  
—and the other boy’s smiling at _him_ , now, tentative and maybe hopeful—  
  
—and oh, that’s not a shadow, is it, that’s a bruise under that eye, healing but dark, and the impact’s thudding into Erik’s heart, because someone _hit_ him, this beautiful quiet boy sharing the playground with Erik, and the roundabout jerks and whirls and squeals with rage—  
  
The boy gets up and comes over and sits down beside him, close enough that their shoulders bump. Erik’s shocked enough that everything falls still.  
  
 _It’s all right,_ the boy says, not out loud but in their heads, and oh he’s like Erik he’s special he’s amazing and those thoughts are warm and shy and brilliantly happy and equally amazed, all tangled up with the scent of tea and the taste of sunshine and the startled glowing heat of the realization that someone else might at last _understand_.   
  
_It’s all right, it’s just—my stepfather, some days I’m not good enough at not being seen, at changing his mind, but I’m working on it—I’m Charles, hello, Erik._  
  
“Charles,” Erik says aloud. Testing the name on his lips, in his throat. It doesn’t sound the same when he says it—faintly accented, German not English, but he can also feel the hesitant delight that isn’t his at the sound, so he isn’t ashamed at all. _Charles. You—know my name?_  
  
“I can hear some things.” With a slightly larger smile. _Not everything—maybe someday—but your name is who you are: what you mean when you say it, when you think of yourself. Erik._  
  
“He hurt you,” Erik says, and touches one freckled cheek, tilts Charles’ face more clearly into the light. “Your stepfather. What can I do?” He could be angry that Charles is in his head, knowing his secrets, knowing _him_. He’s not. He knows Charles too. _How can I help you?_  
  
 _Oh, Erik, thank you…_ Charles shuts his eyes, leans into Erik’s hand. Erik’s heart flutters. “Thank you,” Charles breathes aloud, words feather-light along skin, and Erik’s heart does somersaults and trapeze routines.  
  
A shadow falls over them. They both look up.  
  
Sebastian. Of course. Flanked by his usual brutish bully-companions.   
  
“Go away,” Erik snaps. Sebastian ignores him, and talks to Charles. “You’re new. I don’t know you. And this is my playground.”  
  
“I know you,” Charles says. Polite, incontrovertible, very British. “I’ve been watching you. And no, I think it’s everyone’s playground, isn’t it?”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “You don’t seem to understand the situation here, do you.”  
  
“The part where you threaten me, or the part where you’re about to tell me not to be friends with Erik, or the part where I find your most embarrassing memory and broadcast it to everyone here?” Charles glares. Fire in all the blue. Erik’s in awe. “I can do that, you know. If I were you I’d walk away.”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes go to Charles’ cheek. To that bruise. There’s a smile, gradual and predatory. “Telepathy not enough for protection, is it? Victor, come here.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Erik says. All the metal in the playground rattles. Furious. “He’s got me. For protection. If he needs it. He told you to walk away.”  
  
“I do know who you are.” Sebastian’s continued his ignoring of Erik. Dismissive. Disdainful. “Charles Xavier, right? Your mother’s been in the news. Lifestyles of the rich and famous. I heard she got so drunk at your last birthday party she threw up on your cake. Bet Erik didn’t know that before he offered to be friends with you.”  
  
 _Charles,_ Erik says. He gets to his feet, because he’s not going to sit down while Sebastian stands over them, and holds out his hand.  
  
 _It’s all right,_ Charles says again, wearily. But takes the hand, and they stand there side by side in the grass, the sun beating down on their heads from above. _Anyway, it’s true._  
  
 _I AM your friend._  
  
 _I—know. Thank you._  
  
“Poor Charles,” Sebastian says. “I bet they didn’t even want you. Your parents. Your mom’s smashed half the time and your real dad’s dead and no one wants you here, Charles, this isn’t everyone’s playground, it’s mine, understand?”  
  
Charles’ face is absolutely white under all the freckles. Erik squeezes his hand, takes a deep breath, and then, very deliberately, grabs an abandoned bottle-cap out of the nearest recycling bin and throws it—without hands—directly at Sebastian’s head.  
  
Several things happen in rapid succession, then.  
  
Sebastian yelps in pain. Victor Creed steps forward and punches, not Erik, but _Charles_ , in the stomach. Charles hits the ground gasping, airless, and the thunderclap of _shock/surprise/hurt_ stuns everyone for an instant.   
  
Erik dives forward and tackles Sebastian. Sebastian punches back, harder than those thirteen-year-old muscles have any right to, and, oh, _hell_ , he’s one of them too, he has abilities—  
  
The mothers’re getting up from the bench with flutters of alarm, and Erik can only imagine what his Mama will say, but he’s _right_ , he’s doing the right thing, Charles is his friend and that’s important—  
  
Sebastian hits him in the mouth. He tastes blood.  
  
Charles, from the ground, shouts, _Erik—!_ And then, abruptly, even as Victor’s boot swings back to collide with his body a third time: _STOP_.  
  
 _Everyone_ stops. Victor, Sebastian, Erik, the mothers. Even the roundabout’s stunned enough to cease squeaking.  
  
 _Right,_ Charles goes on, all intently focused calm though there’s pain seeping in around the edges, _Sebastian, what did I say about your memories? Oh, this is an excellent one, you DO still wet the bed at night—_ and everyone present sees that too. Sebastian tries to snarl. Looks around. Sees the faces of disgust, disdain, among his lieutenants.   
  
It’s not merely the memory. It’s that all of Sebastian’s bullies follow the strongest person around. And here and now that person’s plainly and inarguably Charles.  
  
 _Go away,_ Charles orders, control slipping, fracturing around the edges like flickering injured rainbows. _Just go. And this playground is everyone’s from now on._  
  
Sebastian, without a word, goes.   
  
Everyone sags with relief, released. The mothers continue running over. Charles tries to sit up, can’t, and curls into a ball on the grass, eyes shut. Erik has no memory of hurtling back to his feet and flying the few steps to his side.  
  
“Charles—” _Charles say something how bad is it where are you hurt I’m so sorry—_  
  
 _Mostly it’s the headache—I’ve never done anything like—never been in a proper fight, either, of course—oh God everything hurts—_ Charles winces when Erik touches him, light-ribbons of soreness rippling around them; Erik’s heart shudders in his chest. He gets an arm around those shoulders, pulling Charles closer. Thinks, as undemandingly and gently as he can, _you were incredible._  
  
Charles blushes, in their heads. _So were you_. “I think…I might be able to sit up…if you help…oh, ow…”  
  
“Careful!” _Don’t hurt yourself. I saw—he kicked you—_  
  
“Yes, I know, I can feel the bruises—ow—there, too…but, Erik—” Charles puts his head on Erik’s shoulder. Grins, sudden and exhausted and triumphant and exhilarated. _WE were incredible. Together_.  
  
“Yes,” Erik says. _Yes_. And they sit there smiling at each other, Erik’s lip stinging and Charles still panting and breathless, the knowledge of what they’ve just done sinking into their bones. In the background, other children’re climbing tentatively, giddily, onto the slide. Sebastian’s gone. It’s open for anyone to use. A safe place, this playground will be. From now on.  
  
Safe. Because of them. The emotion’s dizzying. Erik wants to laugh. Charles does, in their heads. The sunbeams frolic approvingly around them through the crushed springtime scent of grass and bark and dandelions.  
  
Erik’s mother sprints up to them and starts fussing about injuries, in between scolding Erik for getting into fights and praising them for standing up to “that awful boy, and standing up for your friend, Erik, introduce your mother, any friend of Erik’s is welcome to come over for rugelach and milk any time…”  
  
Charles looks slightly panicked at this unaccustomed mothering. Erik leans over and whispers, “She’s going to try to feed you your body weight in strudel, just wait,” and Charles laughs.  
  
“Erik Lehnsherr,” Edie says, “that is first of all not true, and anyway you never complain, you eat enough of it, and would your friend like to come home with us for supper, and seriously, tell your mother his name.”  
  
“His name’s Charles,” Erik tells her, and she looks from Erik to Charles to where Erik’s arm’s remained around Charles’ shoulders, and beams. Charles thinks, a tired tiny push of shared impressions, _nice/different/happy/she’s happy for you/feels good_ , and Erik thinks back, _told you she’d try to feed you_ , and Charles laughs again, but not aloud, only letting Erik feel the golden glow as it suffuses their thoughts.   
  
Out loud, Charles says, “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Lehnsherr, and, ah, yes, I would—I’d like that, if you wouldn’t mind.” Edie coos over his politeness and offers to mend his torn sweater and tactfully does not mention the visibly older bruise on his cheek, though she does glance sharply at Erik as he and Charles get up, tangled together. Erik looks back steadily, and she nods and asks Charles whether he needs aspirin for the headache and if he has to call anyone at home about being late.  
  
Charles says yes to the first, no to the second—Erik guesses that this is some combination of telepathic checking-in and a family who, from what Sebastian’s said, might not notice; Charles answers _both_ , and Erik tightens the arm around him—and Charles puts an arm around Erik’s waist in return. Erik smiles; Charles smiles back. Erik thinks he might be smiling forever. He _knows_ that Charles feels the same way.  
  
Fifteen years later, after university distances and graduate school, after awkward nose-bumping first kisses and reverent trembling first times, after Charles’ staggering inheritance and all the black-draped fake tears of high society at his mother’s funeral, after the fights they have over money and what they each can afford and how they learn to say _ours_ instead of _yours_ or _mine_ , after engineering projects and published papers and a series of messy apartments that gradually grow less messy and larger in square footage but remain overrun by books and DNA models and a collection of intricate and unusual chess sets, after Erik’s asked a certain question and Charles has determinedly not begun crying while telepathically shouting the yes—  
  
Fifteen years later, fifteen years to the day, they walk down the aisle the same way, too.

 

  
_now with your cause and affection on my mind_   
_I won’t yield_   
_throw caution into the blaze_   
_oh so now you know you know it now_   
_and so now you know you know it now_   
_watch_   
_with a bit of friction I’ll be under your clothes_   
_with a bit of focus I’ll be under your skin_   
_oh so now you know you know it now_   
_and so now you know you know it now_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Now You Know You Know It Now (The Jewish Mother Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106165) by [afrocurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/pseuds/afrocurl)




End file.
